Stop Sweating You Idiot

I lost the will to drink myself unconscious on St. Patrick’s Day around the same time I started making money off of people who did. Which, according to Brendan Behan and my entire personal history, actually makes a lot of sense:

“It’s not that the Irish are cynical. It’s rather that they have a wonderful lack of respect for everything and everybody.”

Also, like I’ve mentioned before, Seattle doesn’t drink like St. Louis does. Sure, the college-y “Irish” pub Josh and I stopped in before the Beethoven performance was full of newly 21-year-old orderers (and eventual puker-uppers) of Irish car bombs and I’m sure the Leary bars imitated a special circle of Hell last night, but from what I’ve seen so far today, people aren’t stumbling through all possible neighborhoods demonstrating their lost abilities to speak or recognize traffic patterns.

This happens in St. Louis, by the way. St. Patrick’s Day (the one in Dogtown, do not even insult me by claiming the downtown parade) isn’t quite as disgusting as Mardi Gras but it’s damn close in terms of brain cell slaughter, and judging from my Facebook feed, a number of my friends are currently taking part (or were taking part until just recently, and now they are probably napping). And to you guys, hey, cheers. While I can’t be with you in person and am still kind of reluctant to be with you in spirit, know that I drank last night, although not to ridiculous excess and not specifically because of the holiday. There were just bars, is the thing, and one of them was an existing favorite while another has become a new favorite, and as for the third, at least we know it’s one of like two bars in Seattle with a shuffleboard table. Even though it’s a short one. With small pucks. Sigh. This city and its drinking pastimes could use some work.

I feel perfectly fine today but I’m treating it as if I’m hungover. This would be fine if it was as gray, rainy, and blustery as it’s been all week, but instead it’s sunny, chilly-to-mild, and I haven’t done a fucking thing except wake up early, go grocery shopping, take out the trash, and go back to bed for a nap. My excuses are that I walked all over bloody creation last night, and also I cleaned the house yesterday so I got to take up to a house that looks like adults live here, instead of teenagers who’ve been abandoned by their parents before they were taught how to properly dispose of junk mail.

It’s so nice to wake up to order instead of filthy, self-induced chaos, which is exactly what I told myself yesterday during my special spring cleaning pep talk. It’s worth noting that my pep talks are more Liz Lemon than Jack Donaghy, though, so mostly I just berated myself into believing that adults aren’t supposed to live like this.

I can’t tell you what it’s doing to my longterm self-esteem, but the living room looks like it should, I can see the surface of my desk, and nothing smells like cat litter anymore.

That earns me a drink.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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